[dropcap]So, like I was saying…[/dropcap]
It was super sunny. I Had my shades on. I was walking across the Starbucks parking lot. And I just kind of sensed someone was watching me. But being the daydreaming space cadet super focused person that I am. I just kept on. Possibly a little more boobs-out-tummy-in-think-hot-be-hot-thoughts than normal but whatever. And then I hear it.
He says, Something I can’t remember but cute and attention getting.
So I turn. And there he is. Getting out of possibly the sexiest black pickup truck I have ever seen.
Though I date boys not their cars. I think a vehicle says a lot about the person. Obviously not always accurately. But still. The Volvo I drive. Certainly speaks to my uber-safety rule following ways. Mega Love drove a Jetta (suped up etc. but still a Jetta). Garbage Man drove some sort of small girly car. Intelligence Officer, a yellow pickup truck (mix of masculine and goofiness pretty much spot on). Twitter Guy drove a station wagon. Back in the days of being gangsta (I’m only partly joking) I wanted my boys in Escalades. But these days. With my new found love for super masculine white guys. I don`t always say it. But I’ve got *crossies* for trucks.
Back on Track.
So there he is. Stepping down out of the truck. And.
Wait for it.
Wait for it.
He is sooo much hotter than his photos. He looks younger (than his photos, not me). He’s a babe. I’m not sure he’d be everybody’s cup of tea. But I think he’s pretty friggin’ sexy. No lie. And really. It only matters what I think (in this instance). Now for the clothes. The attire. The wrapping paper. Is he hawiian shirt guy or david beckham?
Wait for it.
Wait for it.
He looks like he just stepped out of an Abercrombie and Fitch commercial. No lie. He’s wearing a polo shirt that’s sort of like those short-sleeved rugby shirts that A&F are so famous for. Sexy. He’s wearing cargo shorts. At the perfect length. But enough about the superficial. Did I mention he’s tall. His profile says 6’0 but honestly he seemed taller because I had to go on my tippy toes to get my head above his shoulder for our hug (which at 5’7 says something). And yes I hug. Because I’m certainly not shaking my date’s hand. That’s way too business-meeting. And I can’t not have some kind of physical greeting. It’s just not normal. Plus no lie. Good excuse to check the cologne. And boy smelled gooooood. Just sayin’. True Story.
So we go inside. He holds the door. And not beccause it just flows. He specifically opened it. For me. Very cute. I order. He orders. He pays. I hit the loo. One, I really have to go and Two this is his chance to gracefully ditch just in case. I come back. He hasn’t ditched. He’s got my drink. Outside okay? he asks. I nod and smile.
We sit outside. For the next two hours. Conversation flows. The sun lowers. Laughter. Happiness. Finding out interesting things. Revealing interesting things. I may. MAY. have been a bit nervous in the first little bit. And instead of saying Whiterock. I may. MAY. have said White Wock. But other than that it was pretty fuckin’ flawless.
We laughed. A lot actually. Somewhere around the 3/4 point of our date, he mentioned that he would like to see me again. Quarterback drops back, sees his man in the distance and makes the throw. I would definitely like to see him again. Touchdown. The date continues. We’ve been done our coffees for awhile.
We get up to leave. Throw out our cups. Start walking to our cars. His is much closer (I park a bit away, don’t want my doors dinged). As we’re nearing his car he says I’ll walk you to your car. Very cute. Chivalry is so manly. We get to my car. We hug again. No kiss. (but we’ll get to that in a moment). He says again that he’d like to see me again. In a very manly way no doubt. But. And here’s the awesome sauce. He says this and then says, give me a call. Like not only do I get to have the certainty that he would like to see me again, but I get to be the one holding the power (aka not waiting by the phone) aka feeling super good. Well played Trucker Joe. Well played. He leans down to open the door.
Take a moment. To fully take in that sentence. The two parts of brilliance there.
Leans down. As in. Tall enough that to open the door he has to lean a bit.
Opens door. As in. Total gentleman. And again. Not just because it’s convenient. I mean. His hand is there. Ready to assisst a lady. While I’m still fumbling with the unlock button. Sexy.
He waits for me to get my dress all inside the car and sorted. Seat belt on. One last smile. And close door.
The Date Was Perfection. He was the date whisperer. The real date whisperer. The souped up. Enhanced. There’s an app for that. Brand new idate 2.0. Whispering the crying-baby-worries I had in my head. Touchdown.
Now back to that kiss. So here’s the thing. About first kisses. About me and first kisses. About me and kisses in public. About any form of public displays. I’ve said it before. I’ll say it again. I’m not a fan of the public displays of affection. With first dates. We were at Starbucks. A busy parking lot. It was still light out. I love that he didn’t try to kiss me. I don’t doubt that he wanted to/will want to. But I love love love that he didn’t. I won’t lie. The second hug. The end of the meeting hug. Was longer and deliciously tighter than the hello hug. It was good. Ahhhh. Good date. Nothing else to say about it.
Back on Track.
When I got home later that night. I had a message from him. Had a great time meeting you tonight. Can’t wait to do it again.
Me too. Trucker Joe. Me too.
(Phonecall to TheHell this morning). So from now on THIS is the date. That erases the memory of the date with Tedski. If I’m ever scared/scarred and nervous again. You just remind me of this. Tell me about this date again. And I’ll be set.
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